There's snow on the ground but not on the roof, indicating that too much heat is escaping through the ceiling. Anders doesn't seem to take my complaints seriously, since he is the one that gave the furnace gene to his children. It's weird having our roles reversed. Since we met, I've been the one to open windows, run a fan, turn down the thermostat. Now I huddle under two thick comforters, type with gloves on, and consider wearing socks to bed. Anathema!
My understanding for why the elderly migrate south is expanding on a personal level. I'm still young, dammit! Young-ish. Too young to feel this creaky and chilled. I need to redouble my search efforts for a cat that can live with us. A furry warm body on my toes sounds like just what the doctor ordered. I wish the Siberian Cat breeders would move south (or north and meet in the middle) so we could find out if Anders is allergic to them or not.
I am loving my re-visit to Earthsea and wishing it wasn't nearly time to go home. It wasn't that long ago I was there, in the middle of The Other Wind, and these short stories are wonderful. There is something about the way Le Guin writes that makes my brain slow down and savor phrasing. Savor thinking. Savor magic. I wonder what it's like to create a world, populate it, give it language, history, culture. Do writers think of characters and then create the world around them? Or is it the other way around? The world bringing the people to life. Perhaps they go hand in hand, like lovers.